


Off the Rails

by Nefhiriel



Series: Intersecting Lines [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers Feels, Awesome Sam Wilson, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Medical Procedures, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I heal, Sam. I always heal.”</p><p>“You live. You survive. That’s not the same thing, Steve. I’ve seen enough scars to know that, and you know it, too, even if your scars don’t stick around on the outside.”</p><p>OR</p><p>Bucky leaves Steve behind, but Steve's not alone. (And Sam Wilson is still awesome. I checked.)<br/> <br/><i>More hospital scene follow-up for CA:TWS, this time from Steve's POV. <b>Spoiler warnings for CA2 remain in full effect.</b></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Rails

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zelos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/gifts).



> So, I'm not even going to make excuses anymore, even if the story I wasn't going to write just gave birth to a series of stories. What can ya do? (It's people like you, Zelos, that keep me all pumped up - not to mention supplied with all kinds of headconon that I feel this _need_ to write.)
> 
>  **CAUTIONS** : there are vague **descriptions of medical procedures** in here, as well as **patient awareness during surgery** (I tried not to be overly-graphic, but it is in there).
> 
> This could stand alone in its own right, but is technically a companion piece to [_Mind the Cap_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1440517). Hugs and kisses to my super-beta-sister, [Imbecamiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Imbecamiel/pseuds/Imbecamiel)

The feeling of release made the physical pain a little easier to take. 

Steve was used to pushing past the pain. _I’ll heal. I can do this. I_ have _to do this._  

Pain was an alarm bell: your body’s way of telling you something was wrong. But Steve had pushed past those limits many times before. He’d tested them, and found they didn’t apply to super soldiers.

But, even so, he’d known the bullet wounds would sap his strength. After he’d done what needed doing, he crawled his way to Bucky’s side, putting his last strength into heaving metal up, and getting Bucky _safe_.

But if people thought that Captain America’s optimism was a steady, unwavering thing, then people were wrong. Because Steve knew how it would end the moment he looked into Bucky’s eyes. He’d known, as he’d removed his helmet and cast his shield aside, that Bucky was going to kill him. 

And he lay there while Bucky lit into his face, watching the display of driven rage that made Steve want to sob because _that wasn’t him_. That kind of feral hate wasn’t any part of James Barnes. Someone had put that stone cold murder in his eyes

Someone had battered Bucky down to this point of primal, animal instinct. Someone had starved him of good, and hurt him until he understood hatred.

The thought made Steve understand hatred about as well as he’d ever understood it, himself. 

So he let his desperate pleas dry up. If there was any part of Bucky that did remember Steve Rogers, then he had to be in as much pain as Steve was. He wouldn’t torture Bucky any more. He’d suffered enough.

The words “ _You’re my mission_!” were still a dagger that cut deep.

Not Bucky. It’s wasn’t Bucky. Never Bucky.

The Winter Soldier stayed his hand, and Steve took in his friend’s features: so different, so much the same. For a moment he wasn’t alone in a new world, starting over from the beginning, visiting graves and monuments and remembering “history” that had happened yesterday.

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line,” he whispered, and wished he could stay. Wished the line didn’t end _here_.

He’d helped to save millions, but he couldn’t save his best friend, and that was the real dagger to the heart. It was a final twisted irony to measure the worth of his life by. 

He fell, and couldn’t deny the fear of being swallowed up by icy water. But he saw Bucky’s face as slipped away. He saw the look in familiar brown eyes—and it wasn’t hate.

 

* * *

 

Waking briefly on the shore, he choked on water, shivering at the sensation of _someone_ nearby. The ambient noise around him faded in and out, along with his ability to comprehend what was going on around him.

Next, he registered pain. A lot of pain. His head recognized the urgent voices of medical staff, the rattle of wheels, the smell of hospital.

He tried to be still and cooperate, but surgery was always hell and he was just conscious enough to be in agony, and out of it enough to be less than brave about facing it. He struggled to hold on to the knowledge that he _must not fight them_ , whatever else he did.

In his mind’s eye, he tried to think of Bucky as he had been. Grasped for the film-roll of memories where Bucky was a smiling, wise-cracking protector. That smile made Steve long to be the small, unremarkable “punk” that had trailed in his wake. Like an infant who didn’t know what it was like to enter the world of adult responsibilities, he hadn’t realized what his own wishes would get him in those days.

He would’ve chosen to be Captain America all over again, if he’d had to choose again. But that didn’t mean it was easy to have his dreams come true and find out there were always nightmares mixed in.

Something was eating at his leg, and he cried out at the shattered reality as much as the hurt.

A nurse with a white mask and kind blue eyes touched his shoulder comfortingly. Through the static in his ears he could hear soft words. _Easy, Captain. I know it hurts. We’re working as quickly as we can._

She didn’t tell him how sorry she was for the pain. How sorry she was that she couldn’t do anything for him to help him get through. She didn’t need to. _Sorry. I’m so sorry, Captain…_ Her eyes said it over and over again.

He gritted his teeth—for her, for the surgeon who’d taken on the task of operating on a national hero. A national hero who couldn’t keep the whimpers of pain at bay, no matter how hard he tried.

The nurse’s hand was on his shoulder again, squeezing it firmly, holding him together. He wished he could thank her.

Maybe after. He’d remember the eyes, even if he hadn’t seen her face.

He could smell blood. His own blood. Felt the heat of stark white light on his face. A volley of words floated over him, and for a few moments there was only the dull ache of his body weighing him down without any of the vicious stabs to rouse him.

When they started on the wound to his stomach, it didn’t take him long to pass out. _Finally_. He thought he heard “Thank God… He’s losing consciousness, Doctor,” whispered as his eyes rolled back in his head.

The next time he almost surfaced there were other eyes. Green eyes, ones he knew. But he couldn’t keep his own eyes open. The pain was better—not as sharp—but it was still there, looming and heavy, and breathing was a chore. 

Hot, and weary, and restless, he found words slipping past his lips without any conscious choice. 

“Bucky. _Buck…_ ” He knew, suddenly, like a fresh wound, that it had been Bucky who’d dragged him out of the water. Bucky, who’d been standing there making sure he was still breathing.

Bucky, who’d vanished like a ghost, _again_.

A hand rested on his head, stroked his hair like his mother used to (yesterday, and a hundred years ago). Natasha didn’t smell like her—she was smoke and gunmetal, not soap and lavender—but her voice was something familiar to latch on to.

Then the exhaustion got hold of him. He knew the exhaustion of healing: smothering and paralyzing and full of murky memories that never crystalized into anything solid. 

But in the midst of it all, he knew he was safe. There was the smell of the hospital, but also the smell of others, who brought with them a soft assurance of their watchfulness.

There was the _sound_ of others nearby, too—people with familiar voices that alternately growled, bickered, demanded, and calmly answered.

And finally, after what felt like the longest night, he woke to sunshine and music—and _Sam_.

“On your left,” he teased, and achieved the smile he’d aimed for.

Sam had an easy smile that didn’t hide shadows. “ _You_ ,” he said, still smiling, “are impossible, Cap.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, cringing at the way it pulled on the bruises.

“I repeat, _impossible_.” Sam shook his head, and something in the way he was looking at him made Steve feeling uncomfortable. They worked well together. He didn’t need that…that _awe_ from Sam. He needed the guy who ribbed him, and treated him like a fellow soldier. A man instead of a symbol.

But whatever awe there was merged with something somber. “I didn’t have a clue—I mean about, you know,” he swallowed, “things like surgery. That’s rough, man. That’s about as brutal as it comes.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed quietly, remembering, and relieved it was over. “I didn’t fight them did I—the nurses or the doctors? I didn’t hurt anyone?” 

“Nah,” Sam assured, “you didn’t hurt anyone. But I’m telling you, Steve, there’s got to be a way…” He stopped, and tried again, voice gruff, “No one should have to go through that.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Sam.”

“I _do_ worry about it.”

Steve chuckled quietly. “Guess I’ll never shake it, then.” 

Sam frowned. “What?”

“Over-protective friends who worry their heads off about things they can’t fix.” Gently, he added, “I heal, Sam. I always heal.”

“You _live_. You survive. That’s not the same thing, Steve. I’ve seen enough scars to know that, and you know it, too, even if your scars don’t stick around on the outside.” 

“I know,” Steve agreed wearily. Sometimes he wished he did have a few physical scars to show for all he’d been through. Natasha could point to the ugly bullet wound that marked an ugly moment, while his skin was smooth, not a telltale hint of all the bullets he’d felt.

“Good thing you’ve got a lot of a friends. A whole _herd_ of friends, beating down the door to come and check up on you.” 

Steve remembered the familiar voices. “Yeah?”

“ _Oh_ yeah. I’ll tell you about it. Got a few messages to deliver, too. The gist of it is none of them are exactly happy with you right now.”

“So Tony was here, huh?” Steve snorted, settling back into the pillow, relishing the fact that his wounds were only throbbing in a distant, bearable way. “He’s always freaking out about something. Just normal, for him.” 

“What about Dr. Banner? Phil Coulson?” 

Steve stared at him. “What? _They_ were…”

“Here, yeah. Maybe not ‘freaking out’ on a level with Stark, but they were all worried about you. So have the decency to think long and hard before you go and get yourself half-killed next time.”

“I do think about it,” Steve said, sleep beginning to tug at him again. 

“Think again. Think real hard. You’d be missed, Cap.”

“I know, Sam.” 

“ _Do_ you? Do you really?”

Steve turned his head on the pillow, the better to meet Sam’s gaze. An earnest, honest brown set of eyes demanded that he get it. And he did.

“M’tired, Sam.”

“Alright, alright. Get your beauty sleep, Cap. God knows you need it—just look at you. Pathetic. I’ll be here, fending off the angry hoards. Don’t mind me.”

The music lulled him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Still working on a couple of pieces to follow this (although they wouldn't be hospital scenes, they're generally chock full of my feels for this movie and include more 'Vengers, Sam, and Bucky).


End file.
